Louder Than Words
by Samwise221b
Summary: Molly could always see through the facade that was Sherlock Holmes and he let her. This time, though, he didn't hide anything. His body was failing and he was no longer able to fight back. Everything else was transport, yes? She wanted this case to set it all right. A simple one, maybe, no more than a 6 just be safe. Then again, nothing is ever safe with him.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

Darkness.

Everything was hidden from view by the black veil of night. The only light was from the stars, but what help are they trying to see anything ahead? There was no sound, not anymore. There was the occasional faint splash of water against the boat, but it made no significant noise, at least not one anyone could hear...That is if anyone was around to hear it.

The water was taunting the boat, coaxing everything around it to be consumed by the dark freezing hell below. It seemed to be an evil creature that was waiting in the darkness for it's next attack.

Waiting.

The moments of life that slipped by seemed like eternities. The mixture of silence and darkness made the time impossible to determine. It was morning, that was certain; the incident happened around midnight, or was it before then? Time had slipped away so quickly as soon as the chaos erupted. That first moment of impact, still lingered in Molly's mind as if it had happened just moments ago. The feeling of that sudden shake echoed through her body as if to add to the intensity of her shivering.

Freezing was too kind of a word to describe how her body felt. Her shaking frame was pressed against her lover's limp body, their arms wrapped around one another to keep each other from falling into the dark abyss below them. This broken, barely afloat, vessel was keeping them alive, that and hope. Hope to be found. Hope to be rescued. Hope to go home.

Hope.

'_Wishful thinking', _Molly told herself, _'That's what got me here. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so naive?'_

She slowly lifted her head from the shoulder it was resting on; the sound of her crackling, frozen hairs made her flinch. She looked straight ahead at the darkness before her and absorbed the sight. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing around them that resembled any form of life. It was a graveyard; bodies of men and women, dressed in their nightclothes, bobbed in the water like corks. Their faces pale and their eyes were black; completely still and emotionless like the faces of porcelain, china dolls. Molly had seen many a dead body before, but not like these. These bodies, these people, didn't have to end up this way.

'_These people didn't have to die.'_ she thought _'They could have had a chance. They could have lived.'_

A groan from beside her, broke Molly from her thoughts. It came from him, her love, still clutching to the very edges of consciousness. If it had been any other situation, she would've been overjoyed and ecstatic. Now, however, she was too cold and exhausted to show her happiness. _'At least he's still alive,' _she thought, '_I'm not completely alone just yet.' _Shaking beyond belief, she gave his frail body a tight squeeze to let him know that she was still alive as well and he, with the little strength he could muster, held back.

"Mmm," was all Molly could dissect from her lover's horse, barely audible moan. Her own voice was completely gone so she couldn't inquire as to what he said, or rather was trying to say. She merely squeezed his hand to the best of her ability, a physical reminder that she was still here.

Her frozen joints ached as she adjusted herself to be face to face with the man she loved. His lips were quivering and blue with a layer of what was no doubt ice outlining his perfect cupid's bow and thin lower lip. Those luscious curls were hard and frozen, dangling in his pale face like icicles. His normally hypnotic, glass-like eyes that would shine a unique bluish green were now gray and unfocused, showing none of their usual spark. If he weren't holding onto her hand and mumbling, Molly would have assumed him lost along with the others around her.

However lifeless and cold those eyes may have appeared, they still struck a cord in Molly's heart. She loved him, truly and deeply. It was the reason they were in this very predicament, laying here in the harsh cold in the middle of nowhere with their arms around each other. She did all of it for him, risked it all for him...gave up everything for him. If only she could, Molly would whisper to him once more those words that ached at her heart strings daily:

'_I love you, Sherlock. I love you and I'm sorry.'_

His eyes were starting to close and his raspy breathing was becoming more and more labored. _'He's fading,' _Molly thought as she raised a shaking hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, _'Please, no. Not like this.' _His skin was so cold to the touch that it easily could've been mistaken for stone. Molly just gazed into his eyes and pleaded wordlessly for him to hold on. He was trying, but what use was there now? They both knew that death would be a fact sooner rather than later. They would be together until the very end, just not in the Utopian way they had planed for. They weren't going to make it out of here. This watery, freezing hell was to be their final resting place.

Hope was lost.

Waiting any more would just be in vain.

Darkness was all they would soon know.

Suddenly, a light shown brightly ahead. Molly could only see clearly out of the corner of her gaze, but she knew the light was coming toward them. Was this death, that infamous 'light at the end of the tunnel' so many had alluded to?

"Mm..." Sherlock moaned again, his voice slurring over the attempt at making words. Molly was too focused on the light to try and decipher his groans; she was mesmerized by the warm glow that just seemed to be coming nearer. It was in fact moving closer and closer to them. She could almost feel the warmth radiating from it or was that her imagination just trying to fuel that false hope?

Her lover tried to give out another moan, but it seemed that his weighing strength could no longer let him. Sherlock let out a sound that almost resembled choking on air and then, he let his body go limp in Molly's hold. His eyes finally closed as his weary head fell forward, his chin resting on his chest. He had finally lost all sense of consciousness and quite possibly life. A sense of panic entered Molly's mind, but she was too weak to let it show. She could only keep holding on to him, saying an empty prayer to herself that this light would bring a form of escape and safety for them.

A figure seemed to be holding the light; a tall, thin, dark figure that was nearing them, sliding across the water with ease. It came closer and closer with every blink of Molly's heavy eyelids until finally it seemed to be mere inches away. The figure stood above the pair, like a beacon of some sort. A beacon of hope? Unlikely.

"Can you move at all?" the figure asked of her, but Molly didn't quite understand. It's voice seemed so far away and muffled to her ears, almost as if they were speaking underwater. She opened her mouth, but as expected no words came. Feeling the exhaustion finally taking the best of her, Molly closed her eyes and tuned out of the world around her.

She felt her body being separated from her lover's and then laid down into a cocoon of warmth: blankets, no doubt. A hand brushed across her forehead and it felt so warm against her frozen skin.

"Molly? Molly, can you hear me?" came a voice, one that she was certain she had heard before but just couldn't place the name at the moment.

"We have get them heated back up," the voice of the figure said, "I'll have my team look through all of this mess; God, what the hell happened?"

"You can figure that out at a later moment," snapped the familiar voice, "Right now, I'm going to need some help getting these two back to the ship and warmed up. Greg, can you lift either of them?"

"Of course. The medics are on stand-by when we pull...John, he's not breathing."

"What?...Shit, no. No, no, no. Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? God damn it, let's get moving!"

Molly broke free of the claws of her catatonic state as she heard this. Her eyes fluttered back open and her gaze landed on the small group huddled over a still figure, wrapped up in blankets. It, of course, was her Sherlock, laying ever so still and ever so...lifeless.

'_Not breathing.' _The phrase echoed through her foggy mind, taunting her into guilt, _'No, not like this. He can't go like this. I promised him, I'd save him. He can't go now.'_

"Has he got a pulse?"

"N-no, no. Greg, I...I...Come on Sherlock, don't give up like this!"

"Damn it, can this boat move any faster?!"  
>"We're going as fast as we can, Detective Inspector."<p>

"Then push yourself and go faster!"

'_Giving up.' _Molly's mind told her, _'He's giving up...but he can't.'_

"Sherlock," she managed to whisper, lifting a shaking hand out of her cocoon of blankets in an attempt to reach out to him.

"Molly, Molly, just rest," came the familiar voice (belonging to John, apparently), "I'll save him, I promise you. Just rest for right now."

"Sherlock." Molly tried again, her sight blurring as she tried to reach the man laying just a few feet from her, "W-wake up...Sherlock...please."

Her fingers gently grazed his stone cold hand, but there came no response. He was so still, almost as if he were in a deep deep sleep. But no, not he wasn't sleep.

He was gone. She was sure of it.

"Sherlock..." Molly pleaded as the darkness of fatigue started to take her again, "...I'm...sorry."

**********  
><em><strong>Hello! If you are a returning or new reader, welcome friend.<strong>_

_**This is something very new for me in the writing sense and I hope you enjoy it. This, if you couldn't discern from the title is the prologue; The actual story and explanation as to how this happened will come in the following chapters. I wanted to get this out there first before posting the first chapter as a test to see if any interest is sparked. I will be posting the next chapter, which is the real beginning of this tale, very shortly. **_

_**Please let me know what you think. It will not go unheard or unappreciated, I assure you. **_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	2. Chapter 1:How Can it Make Any Difference

_**Chapter 1: How Can it Make Any Difference?**_

_****2 Months Earlier****_

"Excuse me. Pardon me, I just...just have to get by here. Excuse me."

Her soft and meek voice merely added to the background noise of the hustle and bustle of the homicide division of Scotland Yard, deriving no notice from those around her. She pushed and shoved through the maze of desks and officers standing about, checking her phone every few steps to see if a reply had come in. _'Highly unlikely,' _she thought, _'If he's too busy to come down himself, then why would he reply to my simple text?' _Giving up on receiving a message, she stuffed the phone back into her bag and continued her trek to the office door at the very back of the room.

"Please, let me by. Sorry to be a bother. Thank you."

The door lead to an office that she knew so very well; she would often visit here when she'd tag along on a case. Well, not so much as tag along as being dragged to come because the case was going to be very dull and boring so a simple distraction afterward would be most delightful. _'A delightful distraction,' _she often pondered, _'Is that all he thinks I can be? Surely, he must know better than that by now.' _Very careful not to disturb the man typing away at the desk, she opened the door just a sliver and maneuvered herself inside.

"If your here to ask about the Branson case again, my answer remains the same." the man said, not even shifting his gaze from the screen for a second.

"Er, um, okay. That's good, I suppose," she rather nervously replied as she adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, "Although I'm not entirely sure what the question is supposed to be."

The man finally looked up in surprise but then relaxed; "Ah, Molly, it's you. I thought you were someone else."

"I know. Sorry to disappoint," Molly said with a smile, "How are you, Greg? Keeping busy I see."

"Oh, you know how it can be when a case closes. Nothing but endless piles of paperwork," DI Lestrade replied, motioning his head toward the chair in front of his desk, "It's nice to have a little break from it all, , have a seat."

"Oh, I'd love to but I really can't, thank you. I actually need to get going in a bit." she sheepishly replied, "I, um, I just came by to tell you something. Well, actually not tell you something but rather, well...relay a message."

The detective inspector raised an eyebrow in suspicion as he leaned back in his chair; "Oh? What kind of a message?"  
>"Well, when I say message, I really mean it's more like a...a friendly heads-up," she sheepishly explained, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink, "Yeah, a heads-ups! It's from...well, do I really need to tell you who?"<p>

"No, no I guess not," he chuckled, "I can figure that much out for myself. Why doesn't _he_ just tell me though, huh? It's not like he doesn't have my number or anything."

"Yeah, I-I don't know," Molly replied with a nervous laugh, "You know how he is though; No one can tell what's going on in that funny head."

Her heart suddenly began to race nervously as she chewed on her lower lip. She was lying, obviously; she knew exactly why he hadn't called Lestrade or made any form of an effort to contact the DI. It was the same reason he didn't reply to her texts. He quiet literally was incapable of doing so at this moment. He wasn't being lazy, no, not in the least bit. This time, he actually was doing something rather important and he couldn't possibly get away...or so he told Molly and she willingly believed.

'_Impossible man. I wouldn't be surprised to learn he just tricked me into coming down here on his behalf because he simply couldn't be bothered. Wouldn't be the first time.'_

Either she had hid her lie very well or he had decided not to linger on it (Molly was going for the latter), Lestrade just let out a heavy sigh and adjusted his arms across his chest: "What's he want this time? I swear if it's about the Branson case..."

"It's not about the case, not really." Molly went on nervously, "It's about the body."

"The body?"

"Yes, the body. It's...It's not in the morgue. Not all of it anyway."

Lestrade's brow furrowed in confusion as he sat up a bit more. His demeanor was calm and collected, but his anger and disappointment shone clearly in his eyes. "Molly," he said, his voice indicating that he already knew what she was about to say, "What do you mean it's not all in the morgue?"

"I mean exactly that, actually," she explained, "You see, when I had finished the autopsy-now, mind you the family had given their full consent in donating the remains to science."

"Molly..."

"It was perfectly okay at first. He was just experimenting on it in the lab, but then he wanted to take some of his work home and since Branson had donated his body to the lab in his will, I let him cut..."

"Molly, are you about to tell me that you allowed Sherlock to take the body of a murder victim from the morgue to Baker Street just so he could run a few experiments on it?"  
>"No...He just took the limbs."<p>

"The limbs?!" Lestrade suddenly exclaimed, standing up right with his hands resting on his desk, "Jesus Christ, Molly, the investigation is still on going! What if we needed to look at the body more?"

"You didn't, I made sure of that," she (rather desperately) said in her defense, "The cause of death was already determined and a full autopsy was carried out. There was nothing more you needed to see."  
>"You swear to that?" he snapped, "Because if there is a new development and we need to take a closer look at the body and then we come to find it's been tampered with...Molly, you know that I don't usually care what happens to the bodies after the autopsy, but this case is still ongoing!"<p>

"I know, I know, but like I said there was nothing more to be found." she repeated, "Listen if your team needs to view the body, you can just tell them that the body is unavailable."

"Yeah cause that'll go over so well," Lestrade sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and just shook his head in dismay.

Molly tucked a stray hair behind her ear and nervously looked down at her shoes. It wasn't like her to point the finger, and granted it was a very childish way to excuse herself from the incident, but in all reality this was not her fault. Yes, she let Sherlock take the limbs back to Baker Street, but he was the one who took the body apart in the first place.

"The veins on this man are perfect for my experiment, Molly," Sherlock had pleaded with her, "I must have them." He had stuck out his bottom lip and batted his lashes just the right way to make Molly's heart flutter, the common tricks she knew he would use, thus she reluctantly agreed; partially because she trusted him and partially because she knew the arms and legs wouldn't be missed.

At least, she thought they wouldn't have been.

"LESTRADE!"

A booming voice from outside of the office caused both the worried DI and Molly to turn around. From the office windows, they could see a very determined-and frankly very angry-Anderson coming their way. His face was red and, in his tight fist, he was clutching a manila folder; a case file, no doubt.

"Lestrade," the flustered forensics officer barked as he swung open the office door, giving Molly just barely enough time to get out of the way before it slammed against the wall, "do you care to explain what the hell this is?!"

"Ah, Anderson" Lestrade said, with a heavy sigh, "to what do I owe the pleasure? Enjoy being back in your old gig?"

"Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm going to ask you," Anderson snapped back, waving the folder around, "You know why I'm here or have you not heard that all the physical evidence collected from the Branson crime scene has gone missing?"

Molly closed her eyes and just shook here head in dismay; _'Damn it, Sherlock. I told you to put it back.'_

"Missing?" Lestrade regretfully sighed, placing his hands on his hips, "How could we have let that happen?"

"I'll tell you how!" Anderson smugly said, "It was Sherlock!"

"Now, Anderson, let's not point fingers, alright?" Lestrade replied, "Yes, Sherlock has access to everything to do with the cases he's assigned to. It helps him do what he's brought in to do. Yes, his methods can be a bit...unorthodox, but he would never go as far as to take evidence. What would he do with it anyway?"

"Whatever it is he usually does!" Anderson replied, "Test it with some chemicals at his house, try and prove some out-of-the-box theory he has about fibers in clothing, Who the hell knows? But look, he's taken stuff from us before."

"When?"

"Pink suitcase, remember?"

"That was almost five years ago and, to be fair, he found that on his own."

"I thought you were more sympathetic towards Sherlock?" Molly piped in, "Being head of his fan club and all. Why is he the first to blame?"

"Ah, Molly, glad you're here. Saves me a trip to the lab," Anderson smartly said, facing her now, "I need to see Branson's body."

She could feel the color drain from her face. Her heart was racing now as she nervously gripped the strap of her bag; "The body? What for?" she meekly asked.

"Well, since Sherlock took the evidence I need to review what was found on the body. And for the record, I never said I was more sympathetic toward Sherlock. I'm just...a little more tolerant of him."

"Doesn't seem that way," Molly muttered under her breath, but it was loud enough for Anderson to hear.

"Now, listen, Molly," he said, pointing a finger at her, "I am walking on thin ice here. I got this job back solely on Lestrade's say so and I will not be made a fool. If your boyfriend had anything to do with this missing evidence..."  
>"He's not my boyfriend." Molly quickly stammered, "Sherlock's not my..."<br>"Fine. Whatever you want to call it; I know you two have some kind of partnership."

"We don't."  
>"Right. Of course."<br>"No. We really don't."

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Lestrade said, stepping between them, "Anderson, look, I'll send Sherlock a text and see if he knows where the evidence might be. Will that ease your mind?"  
>Anderson grumbled something incoherently and then nodded his head in reluctant agreement; "Fine, fine." he sighed, "I do need to look at the body in the meantime."<p>

"It's unavailable," Molly stated, "sorry."

"Oh for God's sake!" Anderson loudly groaned, tossing his hands up in the air, "Did you let him take that as well? Lestrade, this is ridiculous!"

"Anderson, just study the autopsy report," Lestrade commanded, ushering the frustrated man out the door, "I'll text Sherlock. Now, back to work."  
>"I swear to God, it better not have been his fault that the evidence is missing," Anderson scolded as he headed out of the office, "He can't get away with these sort of these things forever!"<p>

Molly watched as Anderson grumbled to himself as he stalked back to his work station. Part of her felt bad for the man; he shouldn't be made to look like a fool just when he's gotten his job back. Sherlock shouldn't have taken the evidence or the body's limbs. He knew better...but perhaps he just didn't care. That wouldn't be news to Molly, but still that's no excuse.

"Molly, look," Lestrade finally sighed, breaking the awkward silence that now resided over the office, "I have always appreciated your work and you know that I never comment on the...relationship you have with Sherlock."

"Wait, what?" Molly asked, squinting her brow in confusion, "I-I don't see how that has to do with...I don't have a relationship with Sherlock."

"Molly, come on, everyone knows you have a little office crush on Sherlock."  
>"I don't have an office crush."<br>"Okay, yes, I was just trying to be civil. You're head over heels for him and everyone knows it."  
>Molly's cheeks turned a beat red and she couldn't muster a reply. True, she had never been good had hiding her emotions for anyone to anyone, but it wasn't like that with Sherlock. At least not anymore. She meant what she said: she did not have an office crush on Sherlock Holmes. Not anymore.<p>

Unsure of what else to say, Molly just shrugged and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. She watched as the weary DI ran his hands through his short silver hair as he walked back to sit at his desk. He looked tired and "Greg, I...I'm sorry," she said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, "I shouldn't have let Sherlock take the body parts or the evidence."  
>"So he did take it?" Lestrade said, more than a fact then a question, "Huh, I was hoping that Anderson was just being petty. What does Sherlock need with the evidence and why did he feel the need to take it home? He's never done that before...well, at least not to my knowledge. He's been getting more and more testy, ya know. Ever since that whole Magnussen business; I still don't even know what happened there, do you?"<p>

Molly just shook her head. She did know, of course, but it wasn't her place to explain it all to Lestrade.

"I know he's stressed," the DI went on, "working cases with us and trying to figure out that Moriarty video. Sherlock's got a lot on his mind, I get that, but...Ah, I'm just rambling now, aren't I? Sorry."

upset; she couldn't help but feel like she was the cause of it. Molly hated thinking that Lestrade was mad or disappointed in her. He was the only caring person she'd known since she started working as a pathologist. He was very much like a father to her; a caring man with a heart of gold. And yet, she couldn't help but think that she had dented it right now.

"I'm sorry," she said again, "Truly, I am."  
>"You don't need to apologize," he replied, plopping down in his chair, "I'm not mad at you, Molly, and truthfully I'm not mad at Sherlock. Frustrated as hell with him, yeah, but mad? No." He gave her a small smirk and she smiled in return. Lestrade then became very serious and leaned forward a bit, folding his hands atop the desk, "Look, Molly, as your friend, can I-can I ask you something?"<p>

"Of course," she replied, "Anything. What is it?"

"Well," Lestrade sighed, "it's just...Is there something going on between you and Sherlock? Something...romantic?"

"What?" Molly asked with a laugh, "Where did this come from?"

"Look, as I said, everyone knows you have a sort of...thing for him," he continued, "and things seem to be different around you two, ever since that video came out. Sherlock seems to act more like a, I don't know, gentleman around you. Nicer, I guess."  
>"Is that why you think I let him take the body parts?"<p>

"No, no, that's not what I'm getting at. I just want to know if something is going on. Now, I've known the both of you since you both started working for the Yard and I've watched your two have become closer in the past few months then I've ever seen. So that leads me to ask: are you two finally together?"  
>Molly let out another laugh and shook her head; "Greg, I appreciate the concern about my love life, but there is nothing going on." she replied, "Really. Sherlock and I...we're friends. Just friends."<p>

"You would tell me though, right?" he asked with a sort of chuckle, "I mean, if you two did ever..."

"Good afternoon, Greg," Molly quickly said, heading for the door, "I've got to dash."  
>"Alright then," she heard the DI chuckle as she headed back toward the lift.<p>

'_What does he mean by finally together?_ ' Molly wondered as she maneuvered through the crowd.

No one, especially Lestrade, had ever wanted her and Sherlock to get together. To everyone around them, Sherlock was the heartless genius who bossed her around her own lab and she was just the doe-eyed girl who obeyed. She knew she wore her feelings for him on her sleeve for all the world to see, but after the whole Sherlock faking his death fiasco and disappearing for two years, Molly was sure she had more of a control over it. Nobody could have been pinning for them to be together, nobody. They acted completely normal around one another, so who could even think of them as together?

'_But Lestrade can see a change', _She thought, _'He can tell something is different. Are we being...that obvious?'_

Breaking her from her thoughts, Molly's phone vibrated in her bag. She pulled it out just as she entered the lift and read over the message on her screen:

_How'd he take it?-SH_

A smile grew across Molly's face and she just shook her head as she hit the button for the lift to take her to her destination. "So now you want to text," she chuckled to herself as she typed up a reply, "Impossible man."

_Rather well. You're not fired.-MH_

_I don't work for him anyway. The arms will be back by 3 tomorrow.-SH_

_I'm sure Mr. Branson won't mind. You owe me one for this today.-MH_

_Don't I always?-SH_

_Will the evidence bag be back too?-MH_

_Perhaps. Not done with the pollen samples. Why?-SH_

_Anderson needs it.-MH_

_He can wait. Done for the day?-SH_

_Yes but I have to stop somewhere before heading home.-MH_

_Ah-SH_

_I mean it when I say you owe me for today, btw-MH_

_I'll repay the favor.-SH_

_You better, you git-MH_

_I love you too, Molly Hooper-SH_

_***********  
>Thank you to those who have shown support and interest in this story. I can't wait to share more with you readers and I hope you enjoy it. As you can see, I've already established a relationship between Sherlock and Molly and I'll get more in detail with in the following chapters.<strong>_

_**Please continue to share your thoughts as they are very helpful for the writing process.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_


	3. Chapter 2: Signs You Can't Ignore

_**Chapter 2: Signs You Can't Ignore**_

"_...__I'm not a hero__. __I'm a high-functioning sociopath.__Merry Christmas!__"_

_BAM!_

"_Man down, man down__!"_

"_Get away from me, John! Stay well back!__"_

"_Christ, Sherlock!__"_

"_...__Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!__"_

"_Oh, Christ, Sherlock.__"_

"_Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now.__"_

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as the memory of that dark Christmas faded back into the depths of his mind palace. It was days like this where that memory would stir and come to the fore front of his ever busy mind; days where there wasn't a case to keep him occupied or anyone around to break him from his boredom. He was alone in the dimly lit living room of 221b Baker Street, which was how he found himself most of the time now. It was just him with no distractions around or if there were, then they were too small to hold his interest. It was the lull of boredom that brought these memories on. When his mind wasn't on a case, the past would often rear it's ugly head and fill Sherlock's thoughts, making him remember the things he'd wished he could forget.

He could still hear the sounds from that night, echoing through his ears as if to be a constant reminder of what he had done: the piercing pop of the gunshot, the clamoring of the officers' feet as they set their riffles to be aimed right at him, the whirling of his brother's helicopter over head, the desperation in John's voice as he looked on as the whole scene erupted around him. It all seemed as if it were only yesterday, not six months ago. No detail about that night had been forgotten or misjudged. It was a like a film on constant loop going on in his head with all those sounds echoing loud and clear in his skull. A single voice stuck out though, one that wasn't even present at the event; it was his own voice but somehow distorted into having a much darker and sinister tone. It would repeat a single phrase over and over again as the scene would drag on:

'_You're a murderer, Sherlock Holmes. A cold blooded murderer.'_

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands too his eyes and he let out an agitated moan. Why couldn't he get it all out of his head? He had been on many cases before where the criminal he'd been hunting down died in front of him, that was nothing new. He had seen death more than once in his own life, so why should the death of Charles Augustus Magnussen be any different? Perhaps it was because he was the cause of it, the guilty one, the reason Magnussen's body now laid six-feet underground.

Perhaps it was because he, Sherlock Holmes, was the murderer after all.

"Stupid," Sherlock mumbled to himself as he curled his body into a ball and wrapped his blue dressing gown around his frame as much as possible. He had been laying on the couch in the living room of 221b since noon and it was nearing the early hours of evening now. His skull was pounding and his stomach was churning. "I'm not ill," he told himself as he closed his eyes, letting the slightest amount of fatigue over take him, "I can't be ill."

He'd awoken rather early that morning-the sun wasn't even up yet-due to a splitting headache and a slight wave of nausea. _'It's nothing, just transport acting up'_ he told himself as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, clutching to the sink as if to keep himself upright, _'Only transport. I'm fine.' _He had failed to fall back asleep; he just laid there with his eyes closed, trying to forget the pain that was beating against his skull. When he had decided to get up, the sun was fairly high in the sky. He managed to shower and get dressed for the day, but chills ran all over his body making even the slightest movement sting like pins and needles in his nerves. Was it a fever? No doubt of it, but he never was ill.

Sherlock Holmes simply didn't get sick. He had no time for it.

Of course, the ever busy, fast paced, logical part of his mind added up all of his symptoms-the chills, the headache, the nausea-and came to the obvious conclusion that he was coming down with , for quiet possibly the first time in his life, Sherlock ignored logic and pushed any thought of being sick aside into the depths of his mind palace. The truth of it all was, though, he had figured out something was wrong with his body weeks ago; that's when the symptoms actually had started. It only seemed recent that the the true nature of whatever was ailing him had come to light; it was getting harder to ignore the symptoms. _'Only transport,' _was on constant loop in his thoughts, _'It's only transport.'_

Perhaps it was the sickness that has brought on these unwanted feelings about that horrid Christmas Day. Maybe the walls of the genius' infamous mind palace were breaking due to the fever, releasing those unwanted memories and unwelcome feelings of...dare he say regret? Sherlock didn't regret ending Magnussen's life, not in the slightest. That man deserved to be put down like the dog he was. In Sherlock's eyes, anything other form of punishment that awaited Magnussen would have been seen as showing him mercy. Sherlock did what he had to to protect those closest to him, those he felt were apart of his family. In the eyes of the world though, that didn't excuse murder. Sherlock Holmes had blood on his hands; he was a murderer, plain and simple. A cold blooded murderer with a black mark that can not be so easily erased from one's records no matter how hard Mycroft tried.

There was no use in it anyway. Sherlock was a murderer, plain and simple.

"_Get away from me, John! Stay well back!__"_

"_Christ, Sherlock!__"_

"_...__Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!__"_

"_Oh, Christ, Sherlock.__"_

"_Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now.__"_

"Sherlock," came a voice from what sounded like far away, breaking through the memory, "Sherlock, come on, wake up." A strong grip took hold of his shoulder and shook him slightly, jerking Sherlock back to reality and out of his dark thoughts. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times to clear his vision. He let out a heavy sigh as his gaze landed on the face of his former flatmate, hovering over him like a mother looking over their child.

"John, you are awfully close to my face," Sherlock groaned, attempting to hide his groggy voice behind humor, "People might talk."

"Nice to see you too," the former army doctor replied, with a roll of his eyes, "You alright? You feel kind of warm."

"I'm fine," Sherlock lied, swatting John's hand away as it made the move from his shoulder to his forehead, "or at least I was until you disturbed me."  
>"What? Did I interrupt some important mind palace research?" John teased as he took a seat in his old chair.<p>

"Perhaps you did," Sherlock replied with a groan. His body ached as he made his way into a sitting position. The room spun for a moment as he found his center of balance, but Sherlock kept his facade of being 'perfectly fine' up for John. Of all the people in his life, Sherlock could not let John know that he was sick. John would just make a fuss, like all doctors do; it wasn't his fault, it was just in his nature. All doctors were the same in Sherlock's mind and John was no exception. He just trusted John a tad more than other physicians that's all, but not enough to tell him of his symptoms.

"Here," John said, tossing Sherlock a wash cloth he had retrieved from the kitchen, "you look like you've just run a marathon. Who was chasing you in that dream?"  
>"No one," Sherlock exhaled, wiping his sweat drenched face (<em>'Fever must be picking up again'<em>), "I was just thinking. You didn't have to shake me."

"Well, I've been calling your name but that wasn't getting me anywhere," John scolded, "Couldn't you hear me?"  
>"Evidently not."<p>

"I figured since you weren't responding that I'd shake you. You know, make sure you were still alive and what have you."

"How very kind."

"What are friends for, huh?"

Sherlock looked up at his best friend and gave him a half-mouth smirk. John just shook his head but smiled in return. The topic was dropped and they wordlessly decided to move on. This was a common practice between them. The friendship of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes seemed to be the biggest mystery to have ever faced the pair. They couldn't explain how it worked but it just did and that was enough for them. It's not quiet functional but it suits them.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, rolling the sleeves of his blue dress shirt up to his elbows, "Shouldn't you be with your wife or something like that?"

"Um, well, Mary had some errands to run," John replied, sounding a bit taken back, "and I'm here because it's Thursday."

"You don't usually plan your visits by the days of the week, John," Sherlock smartly remarked, looking down at the ground and running his hands through his curls, "Why is this Thursday so special?"

"Oh, I don't know Sherlock. Maybe it's because Thursday is the day I bring your goddaughter over to see you."

Sherlock shot his head up and looked at John with wide eyes. The army doctor just motioned his head to the left and sure enough, playing in the middle of the living room on the mat her father had set up for her, was five month old Harper Watson. A pang of guilt hit Sherlock's stomach, sparking a short wave of nausea, as his gaze landed on the little girl. The child's big brown eyes gazed up at him and she immediately reached her pudgy arms out as an invitation for him to pick her up. Careful not to send himself into a dizzy spell, Sherlock stuffed the rag into his trouser pocket, got up from the couch and made his way over to the giggling baby.

Had he truly forgotten about this visit? John had brought the little girl to Baker Street every Thursday to see him, how could he have not remembered something as important as that? The days must have slipped by him..or perhaps this illness was starting to affect his memory. No, that couldn't be because he wasn't that ill. However, this may be a symptom worth noting. _'Just transport.' _he reminded himself as he scooped the little girl up into his arms, _'Only transport.'_

"You forgot, didn't you?" John asked, but it sounded more like an accusation, "How could you forget? You never forget anything, let alone these visits."

"Apologizes," Sherlock said as he took a seat in the chair opposite his best friend, "my mind doesn't seem to be in the right place at the moment."

"Clearly," John sighed, "you sure your alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock shortly replied, returning his gaze to the smiling girl in his arms. He ran a long finger across his goddaughter's nose, causing the little girl to giggle and clutch onto his hand with all of her little might. Very few children-actually it was most likely just this one child-brought joy into Sherlock's heart. He had sworn to protect her, long before she was born, which made her a member of the elite list of those Sherlock held dear. So why did he forget this day?

'_You're not ill. There's nothing to worry about. Your mind is fine.'_

"We've been here for about an hour now," John said, sounding a bit more serious now, "Mrs. Hudson said you were resting."

"And I clearly was, until you woke me," Sherlock replied, still focusing on Harper.

"It didn't look like resting to me, Sherlock." John went on, "You looked like someone who was having a nightmare. You were shaking and sweating and, like I said before, you were warm to the touch. You know, if you were coming down with something, you could always tell me."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Sherlock nonchalantly stated , but he knew that his facade was not as strong as he had intended. John could see right through it and he could see something wasn't right. Whether it was the symptoms of this mystery illness or the strain that the resurgence of the Magnussen memories were causing his mind, Sherlock couldn't tell, but it was clear John knew something was amiss about his best friend.

"Seriously Sherlock, you...you don't look well. Have you been sleeping?"

"Of course I have," Sherlock replied as monotone as possible, but John wasn't convinced.

"The bags under your eyes give you away and so does your weight." the doctor went on, "Have you been eating at all? Any nausea or vomiting or lack of appetite?"

"Are you trying to diagnosis me with something, Doctor? I was unaware I was past do on my check-up."

"Sherlock, don't blow this off. Can you just answer my question?"  
>"Which one? I think I've heard about four different ones since you've shaken me awake."<p>

"Sherlock, come on."

"What? You didn't clarify. How am I to answer your question if I don't know which one your referring to?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, just talk to me" John sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, "What's been on your mind lately, huh?The past few times I've been over, you seem a bit...I don't know, not yourself."

"Define 'not myself'," Sherlock shot back, "I have done nothing out of the ordinary or changed my daily routines any anyway. I've been sleeping just as I always have and, as for my weight, I've always been skinny there's nothing to be done about that. Don't believe me, ask my mother."  
>"Okay, and what about just now," John continued to pry, "Have you been dozing off like that a lot lately?"<p>

"So what if I have. You know that I slip into my thoughts for hours on end, tuning myself out to the world as it were. I am perfectly fine, John, now please drop it."

"But your obviously not."

"I said drop it."

"You know I'm only trying to help."  
>"I am aware of your intentions, John but I want you to drop it...please."<p>

Hearing the word that the consulting detective so rarely used, John let out a heavy sigh and gave up his little quest. He knew something was amiss with Sherlock, the signs were all there, but he just couldn't place a finger on it. There was no point in wasting his energy on it though, not if Sherlock wasn't going to drop his guard. _'Give it time, though, and he'll tell you' _John thought to himself,_ 'He always does in the end.'_

"So, I heard from Lestrade earlier," John said, breaking the tense silence.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in reply, turning his attention back to his goddaughter who was using his left pointer finger to suck on, "What about?"  
>"Nothing of importance really," John went on, "Just that they were finishing up that Branson case."<p>

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, he said something about hitting a snag though. Apparently, the body's been tampered with. The arms are missing."

"Well, that couldn't have been Molly's fault."

"No, he said he knew it was you."

"...Oh"

"Yeah, and apparently Molly had told him all about it and she took responsibility for the whole thing."

"Well, you know how Molly is."

"Not as well as you do."

Sherlock raised a questioning gaze to his friend but was met with John just snickering at him, like a schoolboy who knew some sort of childish secret. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back down at his goddaughter; "Your father needs to learn how to handle certain things with more maturity," he said to her, "Please, when your older, show me that you didn't inherit his trait of immaturity."

"Oi, I'm not immature." John said, "I just find it amusing that you've somehow got your girlfriend to cover for your stupid mistakes just like any other man would do."  
>"Firstly, I didn't make Molly do anything," Sherlock stated in his defense, looking back at John, "I simply asked her to deliver a message to Lestrade saying that the parts were in my care and I wasn't finished with them yet. If she took responsibility for it, then that's her own issue. Secondly, don't call her my girlfriend."<p>

"What am I supposed to call her?" John chuckled, "'The Girl that lives with you and you shag every night'?"

"And you say your not immature," Sherlock grumbled, "Listen, I don't believe in titles; Calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend seems childish to me. They are names used when two people are dating. Molly and I aren't dating, we are in a full-fledged relationship."

"Those are one in the same."

"No, dating implies that the couple is still trying to impress one another by taking them out to diners or special events and other dull things like that. Molly Hooper and I are not trying to impress one another. We are simply in a committed partnership. She's happy which means I'm happy, thus nothing more is needed. I don't know why you think I don't understand the concept of being with someone; it's a very simple

"...You have the oddest view on relationships, Sherlock, you know that."  
>"Perhaps that is why I've been so against the idea for so long."<p>

"That is until Molly, of course."

"Of course, now will you stop prying into my personal affairs?"

John just shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration; "God your being very sensitive today," he sighed, "Whatever your coming down with must be making you more aggravated with the world then usual."

"Shut up," Sherlock mumbled in reply, "I'm perfectly fine."

"Right, of course you are." John said, getting up from his chair, "I'm going to give Mary a quick ring to see if she wants to swing by here when she's done. Care to watch over for Harper for a bit?"

"Yes, yes, we'll be fine," Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively through the air, "Take your phone call and get off my back." John rolled his eyes again as he dug out his phone. Sherlock watched as the good doctor went down the stairs then turned his attention back to little Harper, who was simply smiling at her godfather as there wasn't a care in the world.

"I apologize for forgetting about our meeting today, Harper," Sherlock said in a soft tone he only used with her, "my mind isn't working the way I want it to right now. Can you forgive me?" The baby giggled and her smile just grew. "I'll take that as a yes then." Sherlock replied with a small chuckle.

Harper then reached her pudgy hands up and let out a small fussy noise. Seeming to understand her perfectly, Sherlock adjusted his hold on her so that she could lay her head on his shoulder then got up to walk around. She started to yawn and nuzzle her little head in the crook of her godfather's neck as he gently bounced her in his arms. Sherlock then sat down beside Harper's mat in the middle of the room and gently rested Harper on her back atop it. The little girl instantly clung to his hand but then closed her eyes.

"That's my girl," Sherlock cooed, kissing the top of her head as he rubbed her stomach gently, "Just shut out the world and go to sleep." Within moments, Harper was fast asleep with a small smile across her rosy pink lips and her godfather's hand in her tight fist.

In a way, Sherlock envied the little girl for being so blissfully happy all the time. Nothing seemed to bother her or truly upset her. Even when she was upset, someone was always there to fix the problem and make all her troubles go away. Deep down in that cold heart of his, Sherlock longed for someone like that. He was a grown man that wanted a person to be his comforter. A someone, anyone, to just take him by the hand when times were bad and say_ '_It'll be alright, Sherlock. You're going to be alright.'

That's what Molly was there for, though, wasn't it? Not that he only though of her as someone to just seek comfort from; No, Molly was so much more than that. She was always by his side, always there for him even when he didn't know he needed someone. She was a light in his dark life and it took him far to long to realize it. Molly Hooper didn't care about his faults or his failures. She simply cared for him, all of him, and he cared for her. They may not always say to each other, but the feelings were always there.

Careful not to wake his goddaughter, Sherlock reached over to grab his phone off the coffee table with his free hand. He held the device up and typed a quick message:

_Come home already. I'm bored without you.-SH_

"Don't you ever tell your father I've gone soft, Harper Watson." Sherlock whispered to his goddaughter, "This will be our secret, yes?" His phone gave a short buzz indicating a new message had just come in and Sherlock quickly opened it:

_Finishing up then I'll be home. Can you last a few more minutes?-MH_

"Such a loaded question, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said to himself as he ran his thumb over the screen, "Can I last without you?"

Just as he was starting to type a reply, a small coughing fit erupted in his chest. Sherlock quickly turned his head away from his goddaughter and covered his mouth with the rag he had used earlier to clean off his sweat. Once the fit had passed, Sherlock looked down at Harper; she wasn't phased by the outburst which gave him a bit of relief. He slowly lowered the rag and his eyes immediately landed on the small red specks of blood that now rested on the cloth.

"Evidently I can't," he sighed, closing his heavy eyes and leaning back against the chair behind him, "I can't last without you."

_******  
>Thank you for reading another installment of this story. Just to clarify, this chapter as well as the last one take place before the events of the prologue. The story will be leading up to that point and, if you already couldn't tell, it will be a bumpy road. Please let me know what you think and thank you again for the support.<strong>_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	4. Chapter 3: You and Me

_**Chapter 3: You and Me**_

Molly sat quietly in the hard plastic chair in the waiting room, picking nervously at her fingernails. The white ceiling fan that spun above her seemed to give the room an eerie essence as the shadows of the blades hit the bland floor at a melancholy pace. The walls were so gray and bland, just what one would expect out of a walk-in GP's office. A few other plastic chairs were parallel to her, empty thankfully; Molly really wanted to do this alone. She never did know who Sherlock had sent to watch over her (homeless network, one of Mycroft's people, it varied) but she could always point them out. _'It's the thought that counts, I guess,'_ she would tell herself,_ 'He just wants to keep me safe.'_

Why was this taking so long? She was told that this would just be an 'in than out' appointment. No, this wasn't an appointment, this was a pick-up; get the bag and then go, why was that so hard? Molly let out a heavy sigh and pulled out her phone, a mindless action just to keep her nerves down. Sherlock had texted her, bored out of his mind and waiting for her to come home. He probably was starting to suspect something was going on, but Molly knew the thought would soon pass through his mind as if it were nothing. His palace was too full right now to worry about her doing anything suspicious. Besides, today was Thursday; His time and focus was centered on his goddaughter no doubt.

"Sorry that took so long," came the cheery voice of Mary Watson as she entered the room from the door labeled 'Staff Only', "I had to take a phone call. John says hi by the way."

"Oh, um, hi." Molly sheepishly replied, focusing solely on the white prescription bag in Mary's hand, "How is he? At Baker Street, I assume. It is Thursday."

"Yeah, he's...he's still there." Mary cleared her throat a bit and cautiously took a step toward her eagerly awaiting friend. She was chewing on her lower lip and was trying to avoid any eye contact. Molly might not have been Sherlock Holmes but she could see that something was deeply bothering Mary and it must be important; it takes something big to rock the stone-cold heart of an assassin, retired or not.

"Is everything...okay?" Molly asked, thinking that it was John causing Mary to worry.

"Oh, yeah, yeah. It's all fine," she replied, "John just wanted to know if I'd be near Baker Street and if I wanted to swing by 221b. That way we'd all head home together."  
>"So, John doesn't know where you really are." Molly said more so as a statement rather then a question.<p>

Mary just shook her head; "You clearly didn't want to tell anyone but me. I don't know why, though; I'm a nurse, not a doctor. John would be more help then me seeing that he is an actual doctor."

"Yes, but he would want to dwell on it." Molly quickly replied, "I needed this to be quick and simple. Where does he think you are?"

"I told him that I had some personal errands to run. He doesn't suspect that I'm here, with you, illegally obtaining..."  
>"Is it illegal? I-I mean I gave you everything you needed to make a full diagnosis, went through all the paperwork..."<p>

"Molly, you know what I mean." Mary gave her a stern yet understanding look, much like one a mother might give to a child during a scolding. Molly wasn't offended though; she knew this whole ordeal wasn't exactly ethical. But it was right. Absolutely right.

"Hey, come on." Mary said, "I get it. Your worried and you're on our own in this. It's just-Molly, this medication it's...it's some pretty heavy stuff."

"I'm aware," Molly sheepishly replied, "people seem to forget that I'm a doctor as well."

"Right, of course. Sorry," Mary said, handing her the bag, "You know what your doing. I'm just worried about-Is he really that sick, Molly?"

Molly took the bag and slowly rose from the chair, keeping her eyes focused on the package in her grip. Was he really that sick? That's the question echoing through her mind since she set up this whole ordeal. Was Sherlock ill enough that he needed this high-grade medication?

"Would it satisfy you if I said I think that he is?" she asked, giving Mary a wary smirk.

"I guess so," Mary replied with a sigh, "Come on. Let's get going."

With a nod, Molly followed her friend out of the room, her focus centered around the precious package she was now carrying. Neither of them spoke while they made their way to the exit; nothing more really needed to be said. It wasn't that Mary was upset and, for that matter, nor was Molly. True, Mary was risking her job as a nurse to help Molly obtain this medication, but that didn't bother her. It was for a good cause in the end, wasn't it?

They made their way out of the building and into a cab. Molly gave the driver the address then they were on their way to Baker Street. Mary quickly shot John a text to let him know they'd be there shortly and within a few seconds came his reply.

"Huh," Mary said, reading over the message, "odd."  
>"What is?" Molly asked, finally looking up from the medicine in her lap.<p>

"John says that he and Harper are down with Mrs. Hudson and just to text when I arrive." Mary replied, "Apparently, the visit was cut short."

"Cut short? No way," Molly chuckled, "Sherlock would never give up time to be that little girl or John, you know that."

Mary nodded in agreement as she shot off another text. The alert went off in seconds: "Ah! John says Sherlock had to investigate a crime scene, too dangerous for John to bring Harper along apparently. He just dashed out of the flat without saying anything else. That's weird, don't you think? I mean, doesn't Sherlock usually take cases while Harper is over and if he does, he takes John."

Molly only nodded then turned her attention to view the busy London streets whizzing by. Even though she wasn't there, she knew there wasn't a case. Sherlock would never just get up and leave Harper and John in that way, not even if the case was a full blown 10. Something wasn't right and she was eager to get home to see exactly what it was.

Maybe he was sick; he wasn't quite himself this morning, that was certain. Molly had noticed when she got up this morning that he was still sound asleep, or at least trying to appear to be. His eyes were closed but Molly could tell by his breathing that he wasn't asleep, just trying to relax. She hadn't bothered him only because she knew that he would only deny feeling ill. That didn't stop her worrying as she prepared for the day. Trying to be as discrete as possible, when she went back to the bedroom to kiss him good-bye before leaving for work, Molly brushed her hand against his forehead to feel for a fever. His skin was definitely warm to the touch, almost too warm.

He hadn't mentioned any of his symptoms to her, of course, but Molly could tell something had been ailing Sherlock for weeks now. It was the waking up in the middle of the night that tipped her off. While pretending she was still fast asleep, Molly would open her eyes just a sliver to watch Sherlock head to the bathroom and then listen to his hacking from behind the closed door. She then started to pick up on the little things he was so desperately trying to hide: every time he'd close his eyes because of an intense headache, the dizziness after just walking around the living room, the sweating of his brow even when he wasn't working hard. Molly could see through his facade, but she never let that show. She truly believed that if he were extremely ill, he would tell her. That was before the 'fainting spells', though.

Sherlock wouldn't exactly faint per-say, but there were times of the day in which Molly would catch him trying to find his center of balance before almost falling over. It be during even the simplest of tasks: playing his violin, leaning over an experiment, everyday tasks that shouldn't be causing him strain. A few days ago, she had to catch him before he came crashing down onto the linoleum kitchen floor; he had been making tea and was waiting for the water to boil. Obviously, once he had come to shortly after, Sherlock denied feeling dizzy and claimed that he was just tired, but Molly hadn't bought it.

She could always see through him, even when he didn't want her to.

That was when she decided to take the whole matter into her own hands. Sherlock may not care for his so-called transport, but Molly did. She wasn't going to let this illness get the best of the man she loved. So she collected what she needed then called Mary to arrange this secret pick-up. She wasn't as skilled of a physician to diagnosis Sherlock (she worked on the dead, not the living) but Molly was able to figure that flu medication would keep the symptoms at bay. Well, at least for the time being.

"We're here," Mary said, breaking Molly from her thoughts. The two women climbed out of the cab, splitting the fare between them, then headed towards the door. John was stepping out of the door just as they pulled up.

"Ah, you've made it. I just finished packing up the car." he whispers as the women come closer, "Great timing, Mary. She just dozed off." Harper was wrapped up in the crook of his arm, fast asleep with her thumb in her mouth. Cooing gently, Mary took the baby into her arms and started rocking her back in forth. Molly smiled at them, secretly wishing to one day have a moment like this with a child of her own. _'Now's not the time for that,'_ she told herself, stuffing the medicine bag into her purse, _'Later. Much later.'_

"I'll put her in the car seat, then," she whispered, then turned her attention to Molly, "Wonderful seeing you today." she said, completely changing her demeanor, "Talk soon, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course. Yeah," Molly stammered, "Nice seeing you, bumping into you actually, yeah." She never could lie as well as Mary, then again lying used to be part of Mary's job.

"Right, okay, where did you park, John?" Mary asked, facing her husband again. John motioned toward the car parked a few feet away and Mary heads toward it, giving Molly a small wink as she passed her.

"Nice that you two bumped into each other," John states, "Always a good deal when you get to share a cab, right?"

"Yeah, guess so." Molly replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "Sorry about Sherlock running off."  
>John just shrugged and stuffed his hands into his jean pockets; "I should be used to it by now," he said, "It was strange, thought. I get off the phone with Mary, head back up the stairs and then a few minutes later, Sherlock says he has to go."<p>

"He didn't say anything?" she asked, thinking that if Sherlock was feeling ill that he'd tell John...wouldn't he?

"Not really," he replied, "He just picked up his coat, kissed Harper, then said he had to dash to a crime scene. Maybe Lestrade had text him, but I didn't hear it." John then took a deep breath and leaned in close as if to tell Molly some form of a secret; "Can...can I ask you something?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Um, sure," Molly said in confusion.

"Has Sherlock been acting strange? Well, stranger than normal?"  
>"How do you mean?"<p>

"Has he been,I don't know, off lately?"

"John, he's always been 'off'" Molly chuckled, "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."

"When was the last time he slept? Properly, I mean," he asked, sounding much more like a doctor then a concerned friend, "When Harper and I arrived this afternoon, Sherlock was out cold on the sofa. If it weren't for the moaning, I would've thought he had knocked himself unconscious."  
>"Moaning, what kind of moaning?" Molly asked, mentally adding a new symptom to her list.<p>

"Like he was in pain. I had to shake him awake," he replied, "His skin felt warm, Molly. I would even go as far as to say he was feverish; that could explain the forgetting."

"Forgetting?"  
>"Yeah, he...he forgot that today was Thursday. It was like he had know clue why I was there."<p>

Molly took in a sharp breath and chewed on her lower lip. Perhaps this whole thing was much more serious then she expected? No fever strong enough could cause Sherlock to forget his goddaughter's visit. Was this illness moving to his brain? Was this some force that was completely out of Molly's control? No, she didn't want to think like that. This was just a hiccup; Sherlock was probably so busy he just...no, nothing, no case or experiment would distract him from Harper and John.

Something was terribly wrong with Sherlock.

Seeing her distress, John nervously cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair; "You know what? It's nothing." he said, "I'm over thinking it all."  
>"John," Molly began to urge him to go on, but he just shook his head.<p>

"We can talk about it later if you like," he sighed, "Just, keep an eye on him when he gets back, alright? I know you always do, but for tonight, just...let me know if something's wrong."  
>"Yeah, I will." Molly replied, "Th-thank you for letting me know all of...that."<p>

John just nodded then they shared a small hug before he walked over to join his wife. Molly remained on the stoop of 221b for a while, watching them drive off and loosing herself to her thoughts. Why hadn't Sherlock told John he was sick? Surely, he trusted John with that information. He couldn't hide this anymore, his facade was starting to crack. Or perhaps, the facade wasn't even up. Maybe Sherlock just didn't care if he was ill and he was just letting this illness run it's wicked course. No, he couldn't be that careless. Could he?

Deciding not to linger on it anymore than she had to, Molly dug her keys out of her purse and turned toward the front door; "A hot bath to clear your head, that's what you need Molly Hooper," she told herself as she turned the knob. Just before stepping through the front door, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist causing her to jump back in surprise.

"Odd, isn't it?" came a voice from behind her, "I would've thought you'd recognized my touch by now, Molly."  
>Molly let out a deep sigh and slowly turned around to come face to face with Sherlock Holmes. She gave him a genuine smile as she rested her hands on his shoulders; "You startled..." she started to say, but Sherlock cupped her face in his hands and brushed his thumb over her lower lip.<p>

"Don't speak," he whispered just before they exchanged a deep kiss.

Taken back just a bit, Molly closed her eyes and slowly brought her fingers up to tangle in his curls. He tasted of cigarettes but she didn't care. Just for this one moment, she'd let it thoughts of illness melted away from Molly as she contently moaned into his mouth and it seemed to her that she was floating on air.

Sherlock always had that effect on her, that wasn't news. Molly's heart was his the moment she laid eyes on him; the intellect, the way he held himself as he strutted into a room, everything about the mysterious man had sent her emotions on a fairground ride that never seemed to end. It wouldn't be until years later that she learned Sherlock felt the same way. The road to where they were now was a bumpy one, to say the least, but somehow they each knew this was where they were going to end up.

Together, locked in each others arms, never wanting to let go.

When they gently pulled apart, Molly wrapped her arms around Sherlock's waist, nuzzling her head under his chin; "That was unexpected," she said with a quaint smile growing across her lips, "Can I ask what has brought this sweet affection on?"

"I missed you," he whispered in reply, wrapping her up in the warmth of his coat, "Oh, I missed you terribly, Molly Hooper."

"You see me everyday," she giggled, "Your acting like you didn't think I was coming back."

Sherlock smiled and placed a kiss on the top of her head, "Come on, let's go inside. You must be exhausted." he said into her hair, "And you must tell me where you've been."  
>"I told you. I had things to do."<p>

"Hmm, yes, _things_ to do. How mysterious of you, Ms. Hooper." Molly just rolled her eyes and playfully swatted his chest as Sherlock unlocked the door.

As they stepped inside 221b and headed up the stairs, Molly couldn't help take notice of how slow Sherlock was walking ahead of her. He seemed to be calculating each step, almost making absolutely sure to not miss one or he would topple over. He was gripping to the banister, as well, so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Molly was suddenly reminded of the fragile state Sherlock was in and her heart broke a little. Without really thinking about it, Molly came up beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist to help keep him upright.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, his voice sounding a little out of breath.

"Didn't say you weren't." she replied, placing a kiss on his cheek. It was warm to the touch. Even if he was trying to put up a front, Molly could tell that he was feeling ill. Sherlock Holmes could fool many with his stone-cold exterior, but never Molly Hooper.

They made it up to the living room and Sherlock removed Molly's coat as well as his own and hung them by the door. He plopped down with a thud onto the couch and tossed his head back. Molly watched his chest rise and fall with heavy breathes as she hung her purse by the door as well. As discreetly as possible, she took out the medicine bag and held it behind her back.

"So where did you run off to?" she asked, taking a few steps toward Sherlock.

"There wasn't. I lied, but you already knew that." he replied, closing his eyes, "It was strange. I felt so...compressed."  
>"Compressed?"<br>"Yes. As if the whole room was caving in around me. I needed to get out and relax. Very unlike me, I know, but I just couldn't stay in the room for a moment longer."

'_That would explain the cigarette taste.' _Molly told herself.

After a few moments, Sherlock sat up a bit and opened his eyes to lovingly gaze at Molly; "Come here," he cooed, patting the spot next to him on the couch, "and tell me what's on your mind."  
>Molly gave out a heavy sigh and joined him, keeping the medicine bag well hid behind her back; "You can always tell when something's bothering me, can't you?"<p>

"Of course I can, it's part of who I am," Sherlock scoffed, wrapping an arm around Molly's shoulder's, "Now, go on, tell me what has got you so distressed."

"I guess there's too much to say," she replied, nervously looking down at her lap, "Nothing for you to worry about anyway."

"Oh I don't think that's true," he said with an air of knowing in his tone, "After all, it is about me or rather my state of being, is it not? Why else would you and Mary meet at the clinic after you finished at Scotland Yard today?"

Molly didn't respond, but she bit her lower lip in embarrassment. _'Of course he knew where I was. He always has a way of knowing.'_

"Nice of her to help you out, though." Sherlock continued, "Sad that John had to be kept out of the loop. He suspects something is wrong with me as well, but I told him I was fine."

Molly didn't reply.

"Because I am fine, Molly, trust me. A few sleepless nights and a headache here and there is nothing to me; I've suffered far worse. I've been shot remember?"

Still, she didn't reply. What was there really to say?

"Molly, please look at me."

With a sigh, Molly raised her head and locked eyes with him. Sherlock tucked a stray hair behind her ear and gave her a small smile; that smile that could make her heart melt no matter the circumstance: "I had to do something about you being sick. I couldn't stand it anymore," Molly finally confessed, "The night sweats, the coughing and the passing out all had to be connected to something. Don't try to deny it because I know for a fact you have each of those _are _sick, Sherlock, I just don't know with what yet. But that's what Mary was helping me with today. Look."  
>She pulled out the medicine bag and removed the package from inside; "I got this for you." she explained with some hope in her voice, "It's nothing more than some flu medication, but it is pretty high-grade. You'll perhaps feel a bit muddled for a few hours, but this will help you."<p>

Sherlock just stared at the medicine as if it were poison, completely in denial that it would be necessary for him to take. That heart warming smile had faded away and the emotionless facade was up in full swing. He looked back at Molly and then the package again; "You didn't need to get this," he stated, removing his arm from her shoulders.

"Yes, I did." Molly was quick to reply, "You need it."

"I don't need anything," he coldly said, "Just...leave this alone."

There was an uncomfortable tension growing between them now. It wasn't like them to argue only because Sherlock never felt the need to. But this was a battle Molly wasn't going to back down from; He was sick and god damnit she was going to do something about it, even if he wouldn't.

"Look, you need to take this medicine." Molly firmly said, setting the package in his lap, "Do you want to have fainting spells and a nasty cough for much longer?"  
>"The cough is nothing," Sherlock replied, childishly pushing the medicine aside, "and it's only been a few days since that incident in the kitchen. It was nothing. I'm fine."<p>

"No, you're not!" Molly said, raising her voice now, "Fainting is not a sign for being fine!"

"Molly, let it go! I'm fine." Sherlock snapped. His breathing was becoming faster, Molly took note of, and she could see the sweat beads developing along his forehead. _'Take it down a notch, Molly,' _she told herself, _'The last thing you want is to stress him out.'_

"Sherlock, please," She tried again in a softer tone, "just listen to me."

"You're just as bad as John," He went on, ignoring her completely, "The two of you don't trust me, is that it? Why won't you believe me when I say I'm fine, hmm? Instead, you just want to linger on it. My health is of no concern of yours, Molly Hooper, nor anyone else but me."

"But it is my concern, Sherlock."  
>"No, it isn't!" Sherlock then sprung up from the couch and started to pace the living room. Molly rose up as well and just kept her eyes on him, knowing exactly that this could lead to another fainting spell.<p>

"Take the medicine," she pleaded, "or at least tell me what you are feeling. I want to help."  
>"With what?" Sherlock yelled, tossing his hands up into the air, "Molly, stop trying to take care of me while you're ahead! You don't even know what's wrong with me!"<br>"Do you?" she fired back, "You know, the least you could say is thank you."

"For what?! Thank you for going behind my back and illegally obtain medication for an illness I quiet possibly might not have?!" he challenged, subconsciously griping at his chest, "Rather rambunctious of you, Molly; I never took you for someone who'd break the law but then again you did date a criminal mastermind."

Molly felt the anger building up inside her. He may just be trying to push her away right now, but Sherlock had crossed a line; "Don't you dare bring that up right now!" she snapped, "This has nothing to do with Jim Moriarty!"

"Ooo, perhaps he's behind my mystery illness," Sherlock childishly taunted, unsuccessfully trying to hide a few coughs, "Maybe he poisoned me while I was dissecting that video message. Quick, call Mycroft! Tell him that no one is to touch that dreaded footage; the drive it was on is poisoned!"

Ready to scold him for his lack of seriousness on the issue, Molly was clenching her fists in anger. She was about to fight back when she noticed that Sherlock's eyes were unfocused and a bit hazy. His coughing was picking up and he was rubbing at his forehead now as if to eliminate some form of pain. "Sherlock," she said, taking a few steps toward him, "you...you should slow it down a bit."

"Oh for God's sake, I am perfectly fine!" Sherlock yelled as loud as he could, "There is nothing wrong with me, why can't you understand that? You of all people, Molly, should understand it! I...I trust you and...I trusted my life to you and now I...I can't..." His eyes started to blink rapidly as he griped the sides of his head. The room was spinning and all of his thoughts were jumbling around in his skull.

"Sherlock," Molly said, her voice sounding to Sherlock as if he were underwater.

"I-I'm fine." He breathed out, "Absolutely...com-completely...Molly."

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he began to fall to the ground. Molly caught him just before he hit anything and she slowly brought him down with her to sit on the floor.

"Sherlock," she called to him, cradling his limp body in her arms, "Sherlock can you hear me?" She patted his cheek a few times, causing him to moan slightly; his skin was too warm to the touch. "Come on, let's get you to bed." she said, placing a quick kiss on his forehead, "You need your rest, Sherlock. Come on."

Molly lifted his limp right arm up and draped it over her shoulder and they slowly rose to their feet. Sherlock groaned in his feverish state, but otherwise remained practically unconscious as she supported him down the hall toward the bedroom. His head rolled onto Molly's shoulder as she tried to open the door with her free hand. She placed a kiss on top of his head and adjusted her hold around his waist.

"You're going to be alright," she whispered into his curls, half to assure herself, "You're going to get better."

Once the door was open, Molly immediately laid Sherlock on the bed. She adjusted his head atop the pillows then maneuvered his body so that he was laying flat on his back. It was unnerving how much he resembled a corpse, lying there in his suit so very still. His right arm hung off the side of the bed while his left rested comfortably across his stomach. Sherlock was always a pale man, but now there seemed to be a touch of sickly gray in his complexion. It seemed that right at that moment, Sherlock had begun to look ill.

Not wanting to linger on the image anymore, Molly quickly got to work removing Sherlock's day clothes. She tossed the shoes aside first and then removed the suit jacket, only untucking the blue button up he was wearing; she didn't want any part of his skin to be exposed to the cold air if it weren't necessary. Molly then very carefully moved his body onto it's side for just a moment so to pull the covers up around him. Once he was under the covers and breathing peacefully, Molly kissed his cheek then changed into her pajamas. All she wanted right now was to climb into bed with him and hold his body in her arms as if that were the solution to their problems.

"Molly," Sherlock breathed out a few minutes later.

"Shh, it's okay," Molly replied, climbing into bed and resting a comforting hand over his heart, "I'm here."

Sherlock merely coughed in reply and placed his hand atop hers as he started to drift off again.

"Sherlock, you have to get better, okay." Molly whispered, kissing his cheek.

"I'll...the medicine...morning." he mumbled in reply, but sleep had clearly already overtaken him.

Molly curled up as close to Sherlock's body as she possibly could, resting her head on his chest. His heartbeat echoed through her ears at a steady beat as she too started to drift off. "Please," she whispered, "Prove me wrong and don't be ill. Take care of yourself, Sherlock Holmes, please. For me."

_**Thank you for reading and for your patience between updates. I will be revisiting the Moriarty footage in later chapters; that wasn't just a one of comment, I assure you. Please let me know what you think as comments and/or reviews help immensely in the writing process.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	5. Chapter 4: Disaster Written on My Cheek

_**Chapter 4: Disaster Written on My Cheek**_

It was late morning when Sherlock awoke the following day. His head was pounding, almost as if some invisible force was pressing down upon his skull. Chills ran up and down his spine despite the fact that he was fully dressed in his clothes from the day before. Everything hurt and it felt as if his entire body was pulling itself apart from the inside. Pulling the covers around his fragile frame as tight as possible, Sherlock attempted to block out these awful feelings by escaping to his mind palace. Unfortunately, everything in his mind was clouded by a feverish haze, making him incapable to lock himself away from the outside word. So, with a defeated groan, Sherlock opened his eyes and very slowly began to climb out of bed.

The bedroom was dark and tranquil. Dust particles floated around in the sun beams peeping through the curtains and the light coming from the cracked open bedroom door, dancing through the air to some unheard tune. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to watch their dance and attempt to catch his breath. His eyes, normally shining there rare mixture of blue and green, were dulled by the fever and his vision was starting to blur. This was all too much, too much for him to handle while in this state. What bothered him the most, as he watched the dust dance, was that he had no explanation as to why he felt this way. Why was he ill and with what? Is this a temporary glitch in his system or something long term? Why won't it go away and will it ever?

"Stupid," Sherlock breathed out in a groan as he carefully brought himself up into a standing position, "Stupid, stupid...transport." He wavered in place for a bit as he tried to find a center of balance. Running his hands over his face, the genius let out a deep sigh then headed toward the bedroom door.

As he neared the opening, Sherlock could hear the pitter patter of Molly's socked feet walking across the kitchen._'A quick pace,'_, he noted, _'Not in a hurry, but faster than normal. Worried? Obviously. About me? There's no reason for her to be, honestly.' _

Of course, he told himself that there was no need for Molly to fret about his health; he would go on telling her that it was nothing, just his transport acting up. But even he couldn't keep a lie like that going for too long. He knew something was wrong and he knew that it would cause worry in not just Molly, but John and Mary and Lestrade, hell, even Mycroft.

Sherlock Holmes knew he was sick, very sick.

His world begun to spin again and Sherlock couldn't help but lean on the door frame for support. Exhaustion was hitting him like a ton of bricks, even though he had spent little to none of his energy; after all, he had just gotten out of bed! How exhausted could his body be? Turning his body away from the door, Sherlock pressed his back against the wall and slipped down to into sitting position on the ground. Perhaps down there, he could gain back some strength.

"Damn it," He breathed out as he closed his eyes, "Damn it, damn it, Goddamn it." His body felt heavy and, with each passing moment, Sherlock felt like slipping back into that comfortable state of sleep. '_Only a few more minutes'_, he told himself as he focused in on relaxing his breathing_, 'I'll be fine after then. I am fine. I have to keep telling myself I'm fine. I'm fine.'_

"Sherlock?" came the clear sound of Molly's sweat voice through the hazy mantra playing through his mind.

"Y-yes," he managed to reply, trying his damnedest to sound alright, "Molly, I'm...I'm awake." He didn't budge an inch as the door opened all the way and Molly walked in; too much work for his fatigued body to muster at the moment. Somehow though, he managed to open his heavy eyelids just as she was knelling down in front of him. "Good morning," she said, a quaint smile upon her lips.

"Is it?" he asked, "Judging by the-the sunlight coming into the bedroom, it must be...or perhaps nearing, um, noon?"

To Sherlock's surprise, Molly gave out a small giggle; "Sherlock Holmes, I do believe that is the first time you've spoken to me in something other than a complete thought." she teased, taking his hands into her own, "You must still be feverish."

"And you must be playing hooky from work," he quipped, clearly trying to avoid the subject of his health, "It's Friday and you should have left for the lab hours ago."

"Well, maybe I called in because I felt that I needed to stay here with you."

"Why?"  
>"You're the genius, Sherlock, can't you figure it out?"<br>"Molly, if you decided to not go to work out of some need to watch over me, then allow me to say that your action was in vain."

"Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake, you are ill and I want to take care you. Is that a crime?"

He started to protest, thinking of some other clever response, but then quickly silenced himself;_ 'She can see you, don't lie to her. Besides, you're glad she's here.' _Instead of putting up a front, Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and intertwined his long fingers with hers: "No, not a crime," he replied in a sweet tone that he only used with her, "just...unnecessary."

"Unnecessary." Molly repeated as she moved to be curled up beside him, "Well, I'm sorry to be such an inconvenience to you."

"I didn't say that," Sherlock cooed, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her body in close to his, "You are not, and never will be, an inconvenience to me."

Molly let out a content sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder: "Then why don't you ever tell me the truth?" she said in a meek whisper, "Sherlock, I can tell that you are unwell, why don't you just say it?"

Sherlock took a moment to sort through his thoughts. The answer to her question laid bare in his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Was it pride? Decidedly not, but it could very well be the reason. Sherlock knew he was ill, he just didn't want to admit it.

"Perhaps your right," he decided to reply as he studied their interlocked hands, "You are always right, Molly Hooper, always."

"Okay, now I know your not feeling alright," she said, "You are being too sentimental right now."

"Don't be daft," he scoffed, successfully stifling a small cough,"You, more than anyone, know that the idea of sentiment is not completely foreign to me. John thinks it is, even after all I've done for him; Not that I'm admitting to doing anything specific for him for the sake of sentiment. I'm only just saying that, when the time is necessary..."

"Your rambling and trying to change the subject," Molly stated, giving him the kind of look a mother might give to a child whose just been caught in the act of trouble making.

"What subject?" Sherlock replied, maintaining his innocence, "I was unaware there was any particular subject being brought-"

Before he could continue, Molly put her hand up, the finger tips just brushing against his chapped lips. Her eyes, full of genuine concern and care, locked with his and the air seemed to still. Sherlock hoped to whatever deity above that his frail state was hidden from his sweet Molly, but he knew better than that; Molly could always see him, the real him.

"Sherlock, answer me honestly," she said, moving her hand to cup the side of his pale face, "what's going on? You...you gave me quite a fright last night."

"Apologizes," he sighed, acting as if there wasn't a care in the world as he leaned his head back against the wall, "but it wasn't like I had any control over passing out."

"Sherlock, please don't...don't be like that right now." Molly said, a twinge of anger rising in her tone, "I'm worried about you."

"I don't want you to worry about me." he breathed out, allowing his eyes to close once again; The fatigue was getting to him again. Sherlock could feel himself being pulled back into that comfortable darkness of sleep, but Molly's soft touch against his cheek kept him on the brink of the conscious world._'Stay awake,' _he told himself, _'She can't see how weak you are.'_

"Sherlock, talk to me." he could hear her say almost as if her voice was off somewhere in the distance, "Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?"

"Mhm," he moaned in reply along with a small nod. A painful headache had begun to pound against his skull, adding to the discomfort running through his bones.

He needed to rest.

He needed to fall back into that peaceful oblivion of sleep.

He just needed to get better.

Just as his head started to fall to his chest, Sherlock was startled back awake by Molly giving his cheek a slap (it was more of a firm pat but the effect was the same).

"Sorry, sorry," she said as he blinked at her in surprise, " I thought you were passing out again and I didn't mean to-"

"No, no, I'm, um, I'm glad you did." Sherlock replied, slightly coming back to his senses, "I was...drifting."

Molly nervously chewed on her lower lip as she ran her hand through Sherlock's greasy curls: "You should, um, have a bath." she stated, rising to her feet, "It might make you feel a bit more comfortable."

"Maybe," he mumbled, taking her outstretched hands into his, "Molly, I-" Sherlock stopped himself as he locked eyes with her once more. He felt a pain rising in his chest, almost as if a feeling of guilt was corroding his heart: guilt about falling weak to something as mundane as sickness, guilt about not telling Molly about all of this sooner. All he could do right now was stare at her; this woman, the one who mattered and the one who always cared, would never let him down or leave him to crumble.

She cared for him, even in this fragile state.

She always cared.

"What is it?" Molly asked, helping him stand. Without uttering a single word, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and placed a deep kiss on her unsuspecting lips. She was shocked at first but then let herself give in to the romantic gesture, placing her hands on his chest.

"Thank you for staying with me today," he whispered as they slowly parted after a few minutes.

"You're welcome," she replied, "and now, I'm going to run you a bath."

"You always know how to keep up the mood," Sherlock grumbled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders (partially to keep himself upright).

"Well, sorry, but your health has to take precedence over snogging," she said with a giggle. Sherlock let out a breathy laugh in return which, unfortunately, erupted into a small coughing fit.

The content air about the room suddenly drifted away as Molly lead him to the bathroom. She was worried now, more then she had been before. He was having trouble standing on his own, unable to keep himself awake for a short period of time, not to mention the 'drifting'. Something was terribly wrong and it was hurting Molly to not know what it was.

As they entered the bathroom, Molly helped Sherlock to take a sit on the toilet. Instantly, Sherlock leaned toward the left and rested his head against the wall as the small coughing fit finished up. Molly, unable to bear the sight of her ill lover, quickly turned around to start the water.

"I can run my own bath, Molly." Sherlock breathed out in between small hacks, "I am a grown man."

"Yes and you were nearly on the brink of passing out seconds ago." she replied, testing the temperature with her fingers, "Oh-Oh God, I didn't even think of that."

"What?" he asked, catching his breath.

"You passing out in the bath."

"Molly,I can assure you, I will be fine."

"Yeah, of course. I'm being stupid. Sorry."

Very much to her surprise, Molly was pulled back into Sherlock's lap by him wrapping his arms around her waist. "If your that concerned, then you could always climb into the bath with me." Sherlock teased as he placed a kissed on her neck

Molly just gave him a playful roll of her eyes then gently cupped his face in her hands: "As tempting as that sounds, I don't think it would be the wisest idea." she replied, kissing his forehead, "I'm going to get you some water and, when, your finished in here we can talk about your medicine."

"Hmm, alright." he said, beginning the process of unbuttoning his shirt, "If you say so." They exchanged a quick peck on the lips then Molly stood up.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." she said as Sherlock slowly began to undress.

"I'm sure I'll be fine." he replied.

Molly simply nodded then made her exit. Just before leaving the room completely, she lingered in the doorway for a moment. She took in the sight of Sherlock's pale torso and how prominent his ribs were. He had always been thin, but this...this took her by surprise. That worry building her heart only grew and she couldn't take her eyes off of him, in fear that he would disappear the moment she looked away.

"Sherlock?" she managed to say.

"Yes?" he asked, stepping into the tub.

"I love you."

"Molly, you've drawn me up a bath not sent me to my death. Please stop acting as if the worst is going to happen in the short time I'm cleaning up."

"...I still love you."

"And I you."

Molly gave him a small smile then headed back out toward the kitchen, shutting the bathroom door as she left. When she was sure that she was out of Sherlock's earshot, she quickly pulled out her phone and placed a call; a call that she should've sent made last night when Sherlock passed out.

"Hello?"  
>"Remember how you said to call you if something was wrong?"<p>

"Molly, what is it? Has Sherlock finally brunt down half the flat?"  
>"John...something's wrong."<p>

"...My break is at 2. Can you manage a few hours?"

* * *

><p>John trudged up the stairs of 221b with his medical bag firmly gripped in his left hand. He had only a short window of time before he was due back at the clinic, but he was sure to make the most of it. After all, to him, this was a family matter. Sherlock may not fall under that category by blood or official bond, but he was John's family, one might say his brother even. Too much had corresponded between them for their relationship to be anything less than that.<p>

"Hello?" he called out as he neared the door to the living room.

"John," came the relieved reply from Molly as she came to greet him. She embraced him at the top of the stairs and John happily returned the friendly gesture. "Thank you for coming." she said when they parted, "I hope it's not too much to ask."

"No trouble at all," he said with a nod, "When you called, I figured it must be urgent. Where's Sherlock?"

"Sleeping, thank God," Molly sighed, "I gave him some medicine about an hour or so ago and then he knocked out almost instantly; he had no idea you'd be stopping by."

"The medicine Mary procured for you last night from the clinic?" John teased, causing Molly to blush.

"Sorry about that," she confessed, "I didn't really know what I was doing."

"No, I think you did." John went on, "You knew that Sherlock would never agree to a doctor's appointment so you took the next step. Next time though, just ask me. I'm not completely okay with my wife forging prescriptions."

Molly nervously chewed her lower lip nervously for a few seconds: "John, I...I should've called you earlier. He's sick and I thought-I foolishly thought it would just pass. But it hasn't and now, I think he's only getting worse and I have no idea what to do."

"Hey, hey, don't fret," John replied, setting a comforting hand on her shoulder, "It's a good thing you called me. After my visit yesterday, I could see that Sherlock wasn't 100% himself. To be honest, I didn't think much of it either; I had hoped that if he was ill, Sherlock would've told me. Guess not."

"Why is he trying to hide this, John? Does he think we're going to think less of him or something?"

"His pride is a force to be reckoned with, Molly. Sherlock just doesn't want to come off as..."

"Human?"  
>"Exactly."<p>

Molly just let out a heavy sigh and ran her fingers through her hair; "What if this is something out of our hands?" she said, her voice full of sadness, "John, if he is dangerously ill, promise me you'll help him."

"Molly, of course I will," John replied, "you needn't worry about that. For now, however, let's just try to figure out what's wrong with our Sherlock. Where is he?"

Molly motioned her head toward the living room; "I better let Mrs. Hudson know something up," she sighed, heading down the stairs, "Better she know now rather than later." Once she was gone, John made his way into the living room to see his patient.

There, lying on his stomach halfway underneath the blankets, sprawled across the couch was Sherlock. His cheek was pressed against the old Union Jack pillow with his curls hanging low in front of his eyes. His left arm was hanging lazily off the side of the couch, his fingertips scrapping against the floor. He was dressed in that outfit John immediately recognized as the one Sherlock wore while undercover in that drug den all those months ago. In short, Sherlock Holmes looked more like a member of his homeless network than the world's only consulting detective.

The former army doctor knelt down beside the sleeping detective, setting his med-bag down nearby. He could hear Sherlock's ragged inhales and exhales and mentally took note of it. He also noticed the beads of sweat dripping down Sherlock's ghostly white forehead. Despite that, though, the detective was shivering.

"Obviously there's a fever and some form of infection in the lungs, but Molly mentioned fainting on the phone." John muttered, picking up Sherlock's arm to test the pulse, "Come on, Sherlock, just tell us what's wrong. Leave the mystery's to your professional life, alright?"

As soon as John's hand landed on his pulse point, Sherlock began to stir; "Mmm," he groaned, fidgeting slightly, "Jawn?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, it's me." John said, going about his business, "Molly called me."

"Said not to" Sherlock slurred in reply, "I said...not to worry."

"Yeah well, she has good reason to be. Your fever is pretty high now."

"Sh-she knew...dangers."

John furrowed his brow in confusion and looked at Sherlock's face: "What dangers?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't reply; in fact, he didn't seem to hear John's question at all. His eyes were open now about halfway, but they were extremely unfocused and hazy as they darted about the room. There was something off about this; this was new and slightly frighting to John. Sherlock wasn't being clear and that was never a good sign. Had this illness moved to that brilliant brain or was this the fever talking? Either way, none of this was sitting well for John.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he asked, shaking his friend's shoulder a bit, but it was no use.

"Moriarty...had to go," Sherlock continued to mumble, almost incoherently now, as he began to cur himself into a ball, "Fell. I fell."

"Alright, Sherlock, your scaring me now. Are you awake?"  
>"John...sorry. So sorry."<p>

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"  
>"Mary, not Mary...Murder...I...murderer...I shot him..."<p>

"Sherlock, do you know where you are right now?"

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut and he completely curled into himself as he started to shake: "GOD, STOP!" he yelled,"TH-THE...HOUND, I-I DIDN'T...GOD, NO!"

"Sherlock, you're safe," John said, gripping onto both Sherlock's shoulders, "You're home in 221b. There's no..."

"AHHH," Sherlock suddenly screamed out in pain, "JOHN, I'M SHOT!...MOLLY!...MOLLY, SAVE ME!..."

Unable to think of anything more ethical to do, John quickly stood up and then gave the man a violent shake. Almost instantly, Sherlock blinked his eyes back into focus and it seemed that feverish, trance state he was in had ended. His wide eyes looked around in fear, like a child who had just awoken from a nightmare, as a coughing fit erupted from his chest.

"J-John," he stuttered, gripping onto his friend's brown jacket for dear life, "Wha-what happened? Where...where was I?"

"You were here, in 221b."John sadly admitted, "Sherlock your fever is way too high to be just be treated at home. We need to..." The doctor became very stern as his eyes caught the glimpse of the line of scarlet dripping from the corner of Sherlock's mouth: "God, Sherlock...what's happening to you?"

_**Thank you for being patient between updates. Life is hectic and writers block is no fun. Hope this chapter made up for the wait, although it didn't end up on a good note there. Don't fret, I won't keep torturing Sherlock with illness; there will be answers. For now, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated.**_

_**Until the next time, much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	6. Chapter 5: Your Cause is My Effect

_**Chapter 5: Your Cause is My Effect**_

"We're just going to take him back and see what's the matter."

"Don't worry, this won't be long. Just a few more tests."

"We may need him to stay overnight. We'll let you know."

"He's sleeping now, miss. We'll let you know when you can go back."

For hours, Molly stayed put in the waiting room of the A&E. Her heart was going a hundred beats per second as her stomach kept turning upside down and then back again. It was hell, to say the least, sitting there and feeling utterly useless. There was no one to tell her what was going on down that white hallway where Sherlock was escorted to. One nurse kept coming out, telling her that all was well and there was nothing to fret over, but Molly knew better. She wasn't new to hospitals; she worked in one, for Christ sake. Their_ 'everything's alright we'll keep you updated' _facade was a complete sham in her eyes. She knew something was wrong. After all, she saw how Sherlock looked on their way over here.

She had heard him scream her name and instantly she bolted, mid-conversation, from Mrs. Hudson's flat back up the stairs. When she reached the doorway of the living room, her heart sank to the pit of her stomach at the mere sight of Sherlock. He was pale as a ghost and breathing heavily with one arm limply tossed over John's shoulders. His eyes were unfocused and there was blood running from the corner of his mouth as he coughed rather violently and non-stop. The man was feverish, could barely stand if it hadn't been for John, and it broke Molly's heart. Here was the man she adored, ill and barely mobile, struggling before her and there was nothing she could do.

"Molly, help me get him downstairs," John had said as he wrapped a supportive arm around Sherlock's middle, "We've got to get him to hospital." Molly went to Sherlock's side and placed his other arm over her shoulder. Sherlock groaned incoherently as they made their way to the car, but Molly swore he was saying her name.

Once the two of them were settled into John's car and were well on their way, Sherlock's health took another turn for the worst. He had been laid out across the back seat with his head resting in Molly's lap, just looking up at her through fever-glazed eyes. He tried to speak but everything that came out as muddled and incomplete. He was fighting with the little strength he had managed to maintain; Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to let a fever and a cough tear him down.

"It's alright, Sherlock," Molly cooed, running her fingers through his curls, "We're going to get you some help." Sherlock's eyes met hers for just a moment, but then he slipped into a state of unconsciousness, completely limp and unresponsive. Panic rushed through Molly as she called out his name; "Sherlock? Sherlock, please wake up!" she begged, "Sherlock, stay with me!"

It was all a blur to her after that: pulling up to the A&E, the doctors taking Sherlock back, John assuring her that everything was going to be fine. Nothing had made sense. And now, as she waited in this cold room, Molly felt nothing but guilt; guilt that she hadn't called John sooner, guilt that she hadn't acted quick enough to help Sherlock, guilt that there was nothing she could do at this moment. All that was left was to wait for word and it was the worst feeling in the world.

As she sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, Molly contemplated who she should contact about Sherlock's health. (_'He may want to keep this health ordeal a secret, but his friends have a right to know if something is gravely wrong.'_) John and Mary obviously already knew, but there must be others who'd want to know about the consulting detective's state. She pulled out Sherlock's cell-she managed to slip it out of his pocket before the doctors took him away-and thoughtfully went through the contacts to figure out who to inform:

The obvious one was Mycroft; _'Next of kin should be alerted of any medical emergency,_ the medical professional side of her brain told her, but she then quickly decided against it. She didn't know the eldest Holmes brother all that well personally, but she definitely knew that he would be the last person Sherlock would want to see.

Mrs. Hudson, perhaps; surely the elderly, practically segregate mother to Sherlock, would want to know what was going on. _'No,' _Molly decided, _'she would make such a fuss and nobody wants to deal with her hysterics right now.' _

Lestrade, then;_ 'No, probably not.' _Sherlock didn't even want him to know that he and Molly were in a relationship. Her calling the detective inspector right now would only lead to questions. Not intrusive questions, really, but Molly didn't feel like answering them all the same.

All of Sherlock's other contacts were members of his Homeless network; was the man really so limited in friends?

With a heavy sigh, Molly put the phone away and leaned back in her chair. As she stared up at the bland, white ceiling, Molly's mind wandered back to much happier memories. Sherlock would critique on her not staying focused in the now; "Don't let your mind wander, Molly," he would say, "The human brain is your most precious tool so you mustn't fill it with frivolous nothings." A smile grew across her face as Sherlock's voice echoed through her mind. She wanted to hear that voice now, when she was feeling so down and worthless.

"Molly," the sound of John's voice immediately brought her back to the present. She shot right up out of the chair and waited for him to approach her. He was coming from the hall, the same one where the doctors had taken Sherlock down. The furrowed brow and overall look of stress on John's face had Molly fearing the worst; she almost started crying, but that voice in the back of her head told her to keep it all together. _'You don't know anything yet. Just breathe.'_

"John," was all she managed to say once he had reached her. They stood toe-to-toe, both filling the space with tension; one in fear of what the other might say while the other is dreading to say anything at all.

"He's, um, he's okay." John finally let out with a heavy sigh, "Conscious, but he's still running a fever. It's gone down though, thankfully. Did the nurse come and tell you he was resting?"

Molly couldn't speak, so she just gave him a nod. What else could she do? Her heart had sunk to the pit of her stomach and some many emotions were rattling around in her mind that if she were to speak, she would only cry. Still there was some hope: _'He's okay.' _she thought, '_Okay is good...isn't it?'_

"Good, good," John went on, running a hand through his hair, "Um, he'll probably have to stay the night. Since his numbers are all off, he needs to get his body back into a stable, erm, state. The doctor's let me stay though out the diagnostic tests, not sure how I pulled that one off, but yeah. Anyway Sherlock woke up for a moment back there. He, um, he was really out of it; the mumbling, asking where we were...it was hard to watch. That fever was taking a toll, but once we got that under control...He fell back asleep."

Molly just nodded again. She had never seen John this flustered before. No, not flustered...upset. John was thoroughly upset. He was worried about his best friend's condition; so worried that his strong, military wall of emotion that he'd bring up during times like these was breaking down. In fact, Molly didn't even know if John had put it up. This was a new side to her, and she didn't know how to respond.

"I'm glad you didn't seem him back there," he continued, but Molly knew he wasn't really talking to her; this was something he just needed to get out now, "Sherlock, I mean, I've seen him in a sickly state before; I was there when he got shot and rode in the bloody ambulance. But this was different. He was moaning, not in pain, but in...distress; it was like watching a child fighting through a nightmare.I've never seen him so helpless, Molly, and-and there was barely a thing I could do about it. "

"Tell me what's wrong with Sherlock," Molly whispered, setting a hand on his shoulder. John gave her a look that could only mean that he didn't have the heart to tell her the details, so she tried something else: "Can I see him?"

"I can't give you that clearance," John regretfully answered, "One of the nurses will be out shortly though; they promised me that before I came out here to talk to you. I wanted to be the one to tell what happened back there; thought you'd like to hear it from a friend."

Molly gave him a grateful smile"Is he...going to be alright, John?"

"Yes, in time," he replied, "A long time, I think, but the doctor's here are hopeful."

"What do you think?" she asked, trusting John's word over anyone else; no one knew Sherlock Holmes, like John Watson.

"It's...it's nothing serious at the moment." he said with a sigh, "The doctor's are going to come out here and tell you that it's a real bad case of the flu and that the only reason he's in this condition is because he hid it from us and well-Never mind that now. Look, I've got to be honest with you, Molly. In my medical opinion, it looks more like pneumonia. Still though, that doesn't quite explain the delirium."

"Pneumonia, well that's-that's not awful," Molly said, trying to convince herself that all will be well now, "I mean, Sherlock's still ill and pneumonia isn't something to take lightly, but-but he's okay. You said it yourself, John, he's okay or-or at least he's going to be."

She then started to feel light headed, as if the entire situation was just now coming down on her. Her eyes watered and small hiccups escaped her lips as she continued to speak; "H-He'll be upset because he wont be able to go out on cases. Oh God, Sherlock will throw a fit." she went on, running a hand through her hair, "W-We should tell Lestrade-No, what am I thinking? I already decided to not call him so why would I change my mind?"

"Molly, Molly," John said, setting his comforting hands on her shoulders, "Listen to me: Sherlock will be fine. We just need to take this one step at a time, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry," Molly breathed out, taking a seat back in her chair, "It's just that...Was there more we could've done, John?"

With a heavy sigh, John sat down beside her: "We can't focus on 'what might have been' or 'what could've happened if'," he replied, "We can only think about the now."

"That's a very Sherlock thing for you to say." she said with a meek smile.

"Yeah, well, your boyfriend's rubbed off on me a bit." John chuckled, "Oh, sorry. I forgot you and Sherlock don't do 'titles'."

"Did he tell you that? It doesn't bother me; I could care less. Sherlock seems to take it very personal for some reason."

"Ah, another mystery into the feelings of Sherlock Holmes."

Molly chuckled and looked down in her lap. It was quiet again and that waiting Hell had returned, but Molly didn't feel as helpless now. John was there, bringing her comfort just by being present.

"The emergency contacts for a Mr. William S. Holmes." a nurse, not the one from before, announced as she came into the waiting room.

"That would be us," John replied, wrapping a comforting arm around Molly's shoulders as they both stood.

"Ah, you are Mr. John H. Watson then, yes?" she asked, looking over the papers on the clipboard in her hands, "Mr. Holmes' GP?"

"That's right," John said, "and this is Ms. Molly E. Hooper. She should be listed there as well."

"Um, yes as Mr. Holmes'...primary," the nurse confirmed, "May I ask the relation, ma'am? Mr. Holmes didn't seem to fill that part out."

Molly and John exchanged a quick look; even on paper, Sherlock didn't want to 'title' their relationship. "I'm his girlfriend," she said.

"Okay then, if you'll both follow me I'll escort you to Mr. Holmes' room." the nurse gave a small motion with her hand and then lead Molly and John down the white hallway. "He's in a private room and resting," the nurse went on speaking, "Seems like a bad case of the flu, but thankfully you brought him in now before he had got any worse."

Molly was about to bring up John's alternate diagnosis of pneumonia, but her friend quickly spoke before she could even get a word out: "When will be able to go home?" John asked.

"He'll need to stay overnight, but he can go home straight away in the morning." the nurse replied, then she turned and gave Molly a quick smile, "Don't worry, Ms. Hooper, he'll be right as rain in no time."

"Er, um, thank you." Molly replied rather awkwardly, giving John a confused look. The former army doctor just shrugged and they then continued to walk in silence.

"Here we are then," the nurse said as they reached a partly open door near the end of the hall, "He may very well sleep through the night, but you can sit beside him if you ,Doctor Watson, there are a few questions we have for you regarding Mr. Holmes' medical history.

"Sure thing. Molly, go on in," John said, gently pushing her toward the door. "I'll be back shortly."

Molly didn't even give him a nod. She stepped into the room as if her feet were being pulled in by some mysterious force. She was barely aware that the door had closed; her mind was too focused on being with feet came to a halt though as she laid her eyes on the pale, fragile figure laying under the coarse sheets of the hospital bed, arms at his side and being so incredibly still; the only sign of life was that of his chest rhythmically rising and falling.

"Sherlock," she breathed out as she took a seat right at the edge of the bed, "Oh Sherlock, look what's happened to you."

He was fast asleep and breathing steadily, more steadily then Molly had heard in awhile. There was an IV attached at his arm, pumping fluids into his body, as well as a cannula hooked up in his couldn't help but reach out and brush a few greasy curls off of his forehead, no longer too warm to the touch. A blanket had been pulled up to his chest but his arms laid atop it at his sides. She took one of his hands into both of hers and placed a kiss on his looked, strangely, at peace with all of his features so at ease and his gentle breathing. Despite the medical equipment surround him, Sherlock just seemed to be relaxed.

"Don't scare me like that, do you hear?" she playfully scolded at a volume just above a whisper, "I can't handle it." As she stroked his arm, a faint smile grew across her lips: "The nurse outside had me say that I'm your girlfriend." she said with a giggle, "John told me that you hate that word. Well, actually, he said you don't like 'titles'. I don't mind it, you know, but I really don't think you should be defensive about it. Never mind, I'm just babbling; You'd tell me stop, if you were awake. Are...are you awake, Sherlock?"

She grazed her fingers across the small injection point the IV was hooked up in then brought her hand back to hold his: "I miss you," she said, the smile now gone, "I know that's silly to say, but it's the truth. For a moment, while we were in the car over here, I thought...I thought I was going to loose you. You looked so lost and sick and...Sherlock, I'm sorry I couldn't help you. You needed me and I let you down. Please,just...just wake up. For me? Please?"

Unable to keep the emotions at bay, Molly closed her eyes and hung her head low to let the tears fall freely down her cheeks. She held Sherlock's hand tightly as she continued to place kisses upon it; "I love you, Sherlock," she whispered, "So very much. Please wake up. Please."

"Molly, I'd really wish you'd stop acting like I'm dead."

At the sound of that horse baritone voice, Molly's eyes shot wide open. She lifted her head so that to face her lover. A sly, half-mouth smirk was upon Sherlock's lips as his eyes stared softly at her.

"Hello," he said, plain as day, and Molly could only just shake her head.

"You impossible man," she breathed out, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around him in an embrace. A bit taken back at first, but then fine, Sherlock held her in return to the best of his ability. He smiled as Molly placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "Where have you been?" he whispered into her hair.

"The waiting room," she replied, nuzzling her forehead against his, "I wasn't allowed to come back here with you, but John was."

"Should've told them you were my partner," he said, running his hands up and down her back.

"Oh, so you'll use partner but not girlfriend." Molly stated, "Good to know."

Sherlock furrowed his brow slightly but then relaxed as Molly nuzzled back beside him again. He held her close as if she were the most precious item in the world (which to him, she was). It was the small coughing fit that erupted from Sherlock's chest that made them pull apart, otherwise, Molly was sure they could've stayed like that forever. She quickly reached over to the bedside table and poured him a glass of water from the conveniently filled pitcher.

"Do you think you can sit up or do you want some help?" she asked, but Sherlock just waved a hand through the air.

"I'm not...not an invalid." he said, catching his breath, "Just...sick." Sherlock then slowly propped himself up on his elbows.

"I think that's the first time I've heard you actually admit to being sick," Molly said, bringing the plastic straw to his chapped lips.

"I never denied it," he replied, "Just never really said anything about it."

Reluctantly, he accepted the drink. A gnawing feeling filled the pit of her stomach for a moment; this didn't feel right, taking care of Sherlock like this. Yes, it was necessary, but Sherlock was such a strong, independent man; He didn't enjoy being cared for. All Molly could think about was how long and troublesome his recovery will be. How was she going to take care of him when he wouldn't allow it?

"When can I go home?" he asked, resting back against the pillows.

"The morning, hopefully." Molly replied, setting the cup back down, "You just need to rest through the night and get your numbers back up to par."

"That's tedious," he mumbled, already slowly slipping back into a relaxed sleep. As his eyes fell closed, Molly started to rise, but Sherlock placing his hand on thigh caused her to stop.

"What's the diagnosis?" he said, not reopening his eyes.

"Bad case of the flu," she replied, not 100% ready to give him John's unofficial diagnosis."

"Hmm, wrong," Sherlock breathed out, "But close. I was betting on pneumonia."

"Betting?" Molly asked, annoyed by his poor choice of words.

"Well, I say betting. What I really mean is I had diagnosed myself awhile back and was pretty certain I hit the nail on the head." he stated, taping a light beat on her thigh, "Either I was wrong or these doctors are idiots; I'm going to side with the latter."

"H-How long did you know?"  
>"That I was ill? A few weeks before the fainting incident in the kitchen, but I was fine."<p>

"Clearly, you weren't." Molly stated, getting a tad flustered with his nonchalant attitude.

Sherlock opened his eyes a bit then studied her features: "You're upset with me."he sighed, "Molly, if you are about to say that I-"

"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" Molly suddenly snapped, "This could've been bad, Sherlock, really bad. I was terrified. You were unconscious in my arms, running a high fever and not responding and I thought...I actually thought I was loosing you."

"But you didn't." Sherlock replied in a somber tone.

"That does not excuse the fact that I could have." she said, taking his hand into hers, but not daring to make eye contact, "Sherlock, please don't push this to the side. This is serious. John thinks that you could very well have pneumonia and-Just promise me you'll fight this. I won't judge you, if that's your fear; people get sick, it happens. I want to help you but to do that, I have to know what's going on."

"Molly..."

"Sherlock, promise me that you won't shut me or John out anymore. "  
>"Molly..."<p>

"Promise me now and I promise I will help you; You know that I will."

"Love, please look at me."

Hearing Sherlock use a pet name (which never happens), Molly quickly turned her gaze to be locked with his own. He was exhausted, Molly could see it in his eyes, and was hanging on to a state of awake by just a small bit. But there was a comforting smile on his lips, one that made Molly's heart melt. She intertwined her fingers with his and sighed heavily as he spoke:

"I promise you that I will fight." he said, never faltering his gaze, "I promise never to shut you out or keep any secrets from you. I promise you anything you'd like, my Molly Hooper." He then brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her knuckles; "Because I love you and I won't leave you."

"You're not just saying that to drop the subject, are you?" she asked, giving him a teasing smile as her cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

"Or it's the medication talking." he replied with a shrug.

They both gave out a small laugh, knowing full well that what Sherlock was saying was wholly true. Without even thinking about it, Molly put one hand behind Sherlock's head then placed a kiss on his lips. Sherlock, with a little difficulty, returned the romantic gesture and gave the hand still holding his own a gentle squeeze.

They remained in this still kiss for a few minutes until it was becoming clear that Sherlock need to sleep. Molly reluctantly pulled away and ran her hand through is curls, gazing deeply into his already halfway closed eyes.

"I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," she said before placing a kiss on his cheek.

"You never...use my full name," he breathed out in reply, finally letting the fatigue take him.

"It makes the declaration sound more profound," she teased, "Now, get some rest so we can go home in the morning."

"Stay?" he asked

"Of course I will," she replied. Molly then situated herself to lay beside him as close as she possibly could without tangling up the IV lines. She rested her head on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart and the gentle hum of his breathing; "I love you." she said.

"You already...said that." he replied, lazily wrapping an arm around her.

"I know."

"I love you too...Molly Elizabeth Hooper."

"I know."

_**Apologizes for the wait! Happy December and, to those who celebrated, hope your Thanksgiving was well. This chapter didn't turn out quite how I wanted it, but in this end it matters what you think :D. I have studied/worked in the medical field but I am in no way a medical professional; all medical references come from research. I do hope you enjoyed this update and please let me know what you think. The opinions do matter and hearing from you guys brightens my day.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


End file.
